


Against Policy

by Nagaem_C



Series: The Sewing Box: Needles and Pins One-Shots [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, POV Lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 22:53:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1165552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nagaem_C/pseuds/Nagaem_C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It came down to this, just one deceptively simple rule: don't talk about relationships.</p><p>And Sally Donovan had been the root cause of it all.</p><p>  <b>(Takes place between Stitching Up the Tears and A Thread to Hold; may stand alone)</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	Against Policy

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read as a stand-alone without too much problem, although it assumes all of the AU details of the Needles and Pins 'verse...but it alludes heavily to the events of Stitching Up the Tears. This takes place a little over a month after that story.  
>    
> As Sherlock informed Anna during Part 2 of Stitching Up The Tears:
> 
> "Lestrade has been making an effort not to mention you while working."

  
**Against Policy**  
_1 December 2014_

.

 

"Sir!"

Startled, Greg pulled his crossed ankles down from the desk, sitting up suddenly enough to send several papers fluttering to the floor and nearly overbalance his chair. He'd been daydreaming, his mind nowhere near the case they were working or the mountain of Monday morning paperwork he might have been doing; he tried to quickly plaster an appropriate look of serious, work-related consideration across his face.

"...Yeah! Got something on Dunkirk already?"

Sally Donovan's glossy mass of tight curls popped around the door as it opened the rest of the way. She moved into his office with her usual determined energy, advancing briskly on the desk and taking up her familiar, controlled stance.

"Not just yet, sir. We're still waiting on analysis on the security footage of the crowd, could be a few more hours yet."

"Right, okay." He shifted in his seat with a short nod, still feeling hazy and off-centre after his rude jolt to reality. Looking up after a second, he frowned. "What is it, then?"

She crossed her arms over the jacket of her tastefully cut navy pantsuit. "You put in for holiday time."

"So I did."

"Four weeks!"

"I'm not sure I like your _accusing tone,_ Sergeant Donovan." He said the words sternly, but neither of them could keep a straight face for long.

Sally sat down in the small chair across from him, leaning forward with a sharp little smile. "Come on! You haven't taken more than a three-day stretch in nearly four years, excepting the week you were out this October, which you never explained, and now you're taking a _month?_ Something's up. Spill."

"Now, Sal..."

His face must have showed his discomfort; she suddenly checked her enthusiasm and straightened, her eyes widening. "Ah, no, something hasn't happened to your Dad has it?"

"No! No, he's fine. Off on his own in the country with his wood-carving, not talking to anyone, same as always. Brian keeps an eye on him." Greg reached for the paper coffee cup by his keyboard, taking a swig only to find it had gone stone cold.

"Right! So, I repeat: spill!"

"Sally..." He let the pleading tone tint his voice just slightly. "Policy?"

Her head tilted towards her shoulder, inquisitive, before she jumped to a second conclusion. "Oh. My god. Not her?"

"What? God, no! Not her. You know, she's not the _only_ person that applies to!"

Sally's lips pursed, and her arms crossed once more. "Well, good. Last thing you need is to be messing about with _her_ again."

"Your protective instinct warms the very cockles of my heart. Though I needn't remind you, it ended on fair terms."

"She _cheated_ on you, sir! For years!"

 _"Policy,_ Sally! Christ!"

"Ugh, fine!" She stood abruptly, turning and grabbing his overcoat from its hook. "Come on, then. If we're not to talk about it, you can at least come to lunch with me, and we'll not talk about it somewhere else."

"Lunch? What, already?"

"It's half past one!"

 _God, no wonder the coffee's cold._ Unsuccessfully covering a grimace of embarrassment at his appalling lack of focus, he stood and took the coat with a sigh. "Fine, fine."

 

.

 

They walked together over to the new casual Italian eatery Sally wanted to try out. The bustling afternoon crowd they navigated through was just enough a discouragement to chatter that Greg got five or six minutes to sort through his own thoughts.

The Policy. That's what they'd come to call it, over the years, for lack of a better title; the name made it seem real and official, though it was a truly informal agreement. DI Lestrade held himself and his subordinates to it, as much as possible, more stringently with those he worked with the most closely: Donovan, Patel, Anderson, a few others. They didn't make a big deal out of The Policy, amongst their team, so Greg had no notion whether knowledge of the practice had ever spread around. He did know it was far from a commonplace idea at Scotland Yard, where the tight camaraderie of boasting, gossip and rampant speculation sometimes seemed to hold far stronger than their sworn code of ethics.

Still, it was intended as a gesture of mutual respect, though some might suppose it stodgy or prudish. Greg Lestrade felt himself a better leader, on the whole, with The Policy bolstering him. And perhaps it _was_ unnecessary; perhaps it didn't improve his performance of his duties, or his relationship with his team, one bit. It was comforting, though: a steadfast rule of his own creation, however minor, that he could cling to at times when everything seemed to go mad—when innocents were being strapped to bombs on busy city streets; when friends were suddenly made fugitives and then unthinkably, horribly separated; when he was reliably informed by a walking ghost that a DC in his own _department_ had been hired to kill him.

It came down to this, just one deceptively simple rule: don't talk about relationships.

And Sally Donovan had been the root cause of it all.

 

.

 

"Smell that, would you!" enthused Sally, as she held open the heavy glass door for him.

"Italian sausage?"

"God, yes. The spicier the better. I've been dying for pizza all day," she grinned, pulling off her coat as they were led to a table near the centre of the boisterously busy restaurant.

Greg raised a knowing eyebrow. "Oh, it's one of _those_ days, is it. Glad I didn't press for sushi."

"Ah, stuff it." They exchanged an easy grin and sat, opening their menus.

 _How long has it been, now, we've worked together? You could set a calendar by Sal's craving patterns._ Greg appreciated that Donovan's quirks were straightforward and constant, from her preferred order of actions when parsing a new crime scene, to the favoured foods she cycled through like phases of the moon; she was easy to work with, and easy to be friends with besides. Granted, she wasn't one of his closest friends, but that came down to two major factors: the fact that she worked beneath him, of course, and the fact that had necessitated The Policy.

Donovan hadn't been on the force all that long, the first time she'd ended up working with Greg. He'd recognised straight away that she had potential, that much was obvious in the way she carried herself; she had an air of self-confidence and a direct motivation that was clearly more than ego. But there'd been something about her that nagged at the back of his mind, and it had taken him far too long to realise why her mocha complexion and strident voice seemed so familiar.

Her sister Hannah was seven years her senior. Hannah also just happened to be his wife Tracy's closest friend from uni. As it turned out, Sally was very close with her sister and frequently attended social gatherings with Hannah's mates. This quickly led to some uncomfortable moments for Greg, and the potential for serious distraction. There'd been a memorable occasion, soon after she'd become his confirmed subordinate, when certain details of a recent argument between himself and Tracy had come out embarrassingly during conversation at a scene. It hadn't been a hard decision after that to take her aside, and ask that she refrain from mention of Mrs Lestrade in future while at work; this restriction was later expanded to all relationships for simplicity's sake, and after a while they'd discussed it and agreed to broaden it to cover all of their team. After all, it was hard to avoid such a topic between two people, if the third and fourth in the room incessantly brought up questions about who was dating whom—and Greg was nothing if not fair-minded, so it only seemed right to hold everyone to the same standard.

It was a decision he came to be thankful for in successive years, when Sherlock Holmes had begun insinuating that Donovan and Anderson were involved in something. Sally didn't want to be asked, and Greg most _definitely_ didn't want to know.

 

.

 

After they placed their orders and their waitress retreated, Sally immediately turned her laser focus back on him.

"All right, so you've got special plans for your four weeks' holiday, haven't you?"

 _Oblique inquiry; she's learning..._ "Yes, matter of fact I do. I'll be leaving the country."

"Oh, that's grand! Going somewhere with sun, I hope? Come back with a lovely tan, you'll make Anderson green with envy."

"Afraid not. Visiting the States, actually."

That obviously threw her expectations for a loop; she narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. "Going to the US, but not the parts with good weather this time of year. So there's a specific reason for the destination, and it's too long a stay to be pure tourism. Your family's all here. Who is it?"

Greg eyed her warningly over his water glass. "Sally."

"Come _on,"_ she wheedled. "You can't claim Policy on me forever, you know. I'll have to get some kind of emergency contact, before you run off on us, ever think of that?"

He frowned. "Well..." Of course, all it took was Sal mentioning emergency contact to set a dozen imaginary worst-case scenarios spinning in his head. "Damn."

"Ah ha! Gotcha! You're logically bound to tell me. And we're not at work now, anyway."

"You take an unholy glee in making me uncomfortable."

"You've just _now_ figured that out?" An upbeat musical clip sounded from behind her, and she turned to retrieve her mobile from the pocket of her coat. "It's Patel, I'll take it out where I can hear."

 

.

 

Greg waited alone at their table and stared into his glass, watching the ice cubes slowly melt and shift. The friendly noise of the restaurant washed over him in buzzing waves as he considered his problem.

He felt a bit torn: on the one hand, his rule had served him well for years, saving him profound embarrassment on multiple occasions. Where would he have been, two and a half years back, if he'd had to face Sally asking questions about the divorce proceedings, or if she'd felt somehow obligated to pass on inside knowledge of Tracy's actions from her sister? How much worse might it have felt, going through all that, had he not had the Yard carved out as an oasis of peace for himself, where he could quietly bury his feelings and focus his entire being on criminal investigations instead? He'd had John to confide in, when he'd been at his worst; despite the fact that everything had gotten conflated with their mourning Sherlock together, they'd been there for each other. And even though he came to realise that many of his close friends had actually come to him through popular, energetic Tracy—a fact that became apparent when they began to leave him in similar fashion—he'd always had Molly's steadfast sympathy, and chatted regularly with Douglas and Kara when their schedules allowed. He hadn't lacked for support.

But, on the other hand...Sally _was_ a friend. She'd stuck by him through good and bad: gone with him to visit his old supervisor Jim Harwood in hospital, when he'd been struck down by a stroke four years after his retirement as a DI; she'd put in the gruelling extra hours right alongside him in 2012, while they were after that awful human trafficking ring; she'd taken over discreetly when he'd drawn short straw for organising the holiday staff party, but couldn't bring himself out of his funk; and, perhaps most surprisingly, she'd fought tooth and nail to remain on his team when all hell broke loose after Sherlock's fall. He'd thought at the time that perhaps she'd simply felt guilty for bringing up the logical doubts that had helped set that chain of events rolling. They'd both undergone temporary suspensions, as had Anderson, and it would have been all too easy to let himself stay angry with her on that score. Hell, he'd been angry at _everyone,_ for a good while there. But the fact that she hadn't meekly accepted a reassignment or transfer, when things had turned around and Greg was allowed to keep his privileges? _That counts for something,_ he mused, toying with his serviette.

 

.

 

"Deep in thought, are we?"

Greg snapped his head up to see his colleague eyeing him from across the table, an amused smile playing about her lips. "Jesus, Sally, I dunno what's come over me today." He cleared his throat, guiltily spreading the cloth across his lap. "What's Patel got?"

"Nothing just yet. He's still holed up in the video suite—he didn't know we'd left. Wanted me to pop out and bring him back a green salad."

"Still on the health kick, then."

"I give him two weeks, max," she predicted with a laugh. "May as well indulge him, anyway; I wouldn't like to be stuck scanning those videos in his place."

They asked their waitress to add the salad to go, when she arrived shortly thereafter to deliver their pizza orders. Sally's was heavily loaded with sausage and onions, of course; she groaned in pure satisfaction as she began to eat.

"Okay," she told him once she'd enjoyed a few bites, "you've had long enough, Greg. Start talking."

He quickly bit off a very large mouthful of his own pizza—a more restrained combination of chicken, bacon, and mushrooms—to buy himself time, or possibly just to be contrary.

She saw right through the gambit; leaning forward, elbows on the table, she stared him down. "Playing it the hard way, huh? Fine...let's see then." She regarded him thoughtfully as she chewed and swallowed. "I'm gonna guess...hm, the Rodney Piers murder case back in September?"

_"What?"_

"You started acting funny, right around then," Sally told him, smirking. "And I know it wasn't Holmes winding you up; that was something like two and a half months after he waltzed back into London like he bloody owned it, and Piers must have been the sixth or seventh case you brought him in on."

"Go on," prompted Greg, curious to see exactly where she was going with this line of reasoning. "Funny how?"

"Mood-swingy. I remember, Anderson was going over Piers' body before Holmes arrived that afternoon, and I caught you grinning."

"I can't grin, now?"

"At a _wall._ For two minutes straight!"

"At least I wasn't giggling at the body, yeh?" he pointed out in defence of himself, quickly taking another big bite to camouflage whatever awkward facial expression he might be making.

"I wasn't sure something was up, though, because you weren't full-on _goofy_ like that, the next day. Almost the opposite, in fact. Then for a few weeks, you just seemed really antsy, you know? Checking your phone all the time, and fidgeting whenever you weren't dealing with someone. But not in a worried way, it looks different when you're worrying."

"Sally—have you been keeping a bloody _diary_ on me? The attention is flattering, don't get me wrong, but this is more than a mite creepy..."

She snorted and polished off her slice. "I've been working with you for almost seven years, mate. You may have got me to agree to your Policy for most of that, but if you think I haven't learned to _read_ you in all that time? You're off your trolley."

His immediate impulse was to run a hand heavily through his greying hair—thankfully, he stopped himself just before the gesture, first wiping the grease from his fingers instead.

"Shall I continue, since I'm clearly on a roll, and you're _still_ not ready to share?"

He dipped his head in resigned deference to her female intuition. "By all means. I doubt I could stop you if I tried."

"Damn right you couldn't. So, after that, what was it?" She tapped fingers against her lips. "Oh yes, I remember! The day you secured exhumation on the linked victim in that bizarre car park case. Sure, they approved the paperwork quicker than usual—that was good, we were all chuffed; but _you_ were thrilled to _bits,_ the whole day. Like, blissed out."

"Okay, okay! I can't handle any more," Greg exclaimed, shaking his head. He recalled the events immediately preceding that workday, _very_ clearly. "You win, Donovan!"

"So who's the lucky lady?"

He clasped the cold glass between his hands, braced himself, and got it all out in a rush, like tearing off a sticking plaster. "Her name's Anna—she's from Ohio; we met at the end of August. She stayed at my flat for about six weeks, and flew home near the end of October; I'm going off to meet her family for Christmas. She's a bloody miracle, and I'm utterly mad for her. All right?"

"Was that so hard?" Her voice had softened and gone strangely fond; he realised then that he'd been staring fixedly at his plate. When he looked up, the broad smile spreading across her face was utterly different from the sharp, almost predatory grin she usually wore.

Greg let out a long sigh, then tipped his water up to drain it in one long draught. "Harder than it should've been."

"Keeping secrets'll do that, you know."

"Right—well, you've cracked the floodgates now, I guess, so you might as well go ahead and ask whatever else it is you want!" He studied the empty glass, and vaguely wished that staring at it hard enough would turn it into a beer.

Sally chuckled in a way that very nearly convinced him she could read his mind. "There's a little test my Mum used to do...indulge me, okay?" When he grunted a reluctant assent, she continued: "Tell me something about her. Anything at all, just list off five or six random facts."

"Random facts?" Greg stroked his chin and considered the request. "Hm. All right, I suppose...Anna's medium height, light brown hair, hazel eyes. Her two brothers are both younger than her, they've each got a kid but she hasn't..." He threw a questioning look across the table.

His colleague's face was unreadable, hands clasped beneath her chin. "Go on."

"She's smart, and creative. She loves mint ice cream, but hates mint toothpaste..." The words were starting to flow more easily; he could see Anna in his head as if she hadn't been separated from him by an ocean for the past five and a half weeks. "She has a little dimple on the left side when she smiles; it's actually a scar from a bike accident when she was a kid. She's a touch afraid of heights, but she adores being high—observation decks, the Eye, what have you—long as someone's with her. Her sense of humour is amazing—and her laugh, it's just bloody brilliant..."

"Whoa, boy," Sally chuckled. "You can stop now, I've got a feeling you could go on with that all day!"

He grinned, leaning back in his chair to mirror the movement she made. "S'pose I could, at that."

"Uh-huh. Well, you've passed Mum's test with flying colours, anyway. It's the real deal for sure; you've got it bad for this girl, and it's serious. You should see yourself, right now: you look ten years younger, I'm not kidding!"

"Ha, well that's fitting, innit? She's only a year older than you, after all."

"Oh yeah? You _dog,_ you!"

The smile lingered on his face as the waitress brought their checks, and DS Patel's salad; Anna smiled brightly back at him, in his mind, as he opened the door and allowed Sally to precede him outside.

 

.

 

The crush of humanity on the pavement had lightened a bit since the lunch rush. The pair walked together in friendly silence back towards the Yard, but the closer they got to their workplace, the more Greg's lightheaded relief at having his secret out fell away into a vague uneasiness. He could sense that a palpable shift had just taken place in his relationship with the detective sergeant—and it certainly seemed as if Donovan knew what she was about, pushing for the unexpected change.

He watched from the corner of his eye as Sally's unruly curls flipped back and forth around her serene face, a frenetic halo in the wind as they strode along. _She's not asked me, after all, not in all these years—and that made it easy to fool myself that she didn't know what was going on with me, didn't it?_ In truth, Greg could be certain she'd had all the access she could want to the play-by-play of his failed marriage, albeit told from the viewpoint of the opposite half of the relationship. That thought put a sour taste in his mouth for just a moment; when she turned to glance his way at the corner, throwing him a gentle smirk, it was immediately dismissed as if it had never been.

She knew, somehow, that he'd gotten himself into a situation that warranted her extra attention. And she'd taken the initiative to break the rules, pulling him forcefully out of his self-imposed shell; there was no denying, it felt oddly good. For a few minutes there, he'd been on a roll, and he could easily imagine asking Sal over to his flat for a few pints and spilling the whole story. Maybe from now on, he'd see her more as a confidante than a colleague. He turned the idea over carefully in his mind, and decided he liked it. But what did that say about the sort of friend _he'd_ been, all these years? _I've kept her at a comfortable distance, for nearly the entire time I've known her. But maybe I've gone about it all wrong, and missed out on a better friendship..._

"Sal—" He hesitated at the pedestrian crossing, shoving his hands deep into his coat pockets. "D'you hold it against me?"

She understood what he meant, and replied before he could elaborate. "No. It's been good for us, for the most part. On the job, _definitely_ good. And before you ask, I'll keep holding to that—if I don't, none of us will; and the last thing I need is to overhear Phil boasting to Ronny about whoever he's shagging lately..."

"Oh, you two aren't still—?"

 _"Policy!"_ she cried, holding up both hands in surrender, and they both laughed.

 

\-- _fin_ \--

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you're reading all of these in chronological order, your next stop after this is [A Thread to Hold.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1004581/chapters/1990571)
> 
> Although, I suppose if you want to get _technical,_ this story actually takes place in between Chapters 2 and 3 of Thread... :)


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